


Figures

by hollyhawke



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student!Steve, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/pseuds/hollyhawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve hates evening classes, but the only section for the figure-drawing class he needs doesn’t start until six. He arrives to class late and flustered, takes the first available seat near the back, and completely misses the part where their professor introduces the model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figures

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Tumblr user [steverogersbootyprotectionsquad ](%E2%80%9Dwww.steverogersbootyprotectionsquad.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) as part of the wonderful [Star-Spangled Exchange](%E2%80%9Dwww.starspangledexchange.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) on Tumblr. I hope they enjoy their gift! I know art student!Steve has been done, but I couldn't resist doing my own take on it. I can be found on Tumblr at [margaretrogers](%E2%80%9Dwww.margaretrogers.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D).
> 
> The T rating is for language only.

Steve hates evening classes, but the only section for the figure-drawing class he needs doesn’t start until six. He arrives to class late and flustered, takes the first available seat near the back, and completely misses the part where their professor introduces the model. Steve’s always found that a little weird, anyways; it’s a little jarring to follow such casual social protocols with someone who’s about to take their underwear off for a bunch of strangers.

The model’s clearly not a professional; he’s trying to play it cool, but he looks nervous and can’t quite even out the tension in his shoulders even as their professor tries to talk him through a pose. He’s good-looking, though, and Steve interestedly notes the bright blue of his eyes and the metal prosthetic in place of his left arm. The lighting plays off of it in interesting patterns, and it should be a challenge to draw. Steve doesn’t think anything more of it, and gets lost in capturing him on paper until the professor calls a break, startling him out of his concentration. He stretches, fidgets for a minute, and somewhat guiltily goes back to work.

“Hey,” comes a voice from over Steve’s shoulder. “You’re pretty good.”

Steve had been absorbed in cleaning up some of his linework; he jumps, and turns to look. The model, of all people, is looking at his work thoughtfully, arms crossed.  
That’s weird. Steve’s not used to the models wanting to see his work (he frankly can’t blame them; looking at pictures of oneself naked, drawn by strangers has got to be a little intimidating) and he’s not sure what to say either. He just shrugs, embarrassed.

“Thanks?” he offers, as though he’s not sure it’s the right thing to say. The guy laughs.

“Sorry,” Steve adds sheepishly, “but I, ah, was late and missed the part where they introduced you. So...I don’t know your name.”

“Bucky,” he says, offering a hand. Steve swivels awkwardly on his stool to shake it; Bucky’s hand is warm and his grip is firm, and Steve’s mom always said you could learn a lot about someone from their handshake.

“Steve,” he says by way of introduction. “So, uh...you work for the department? Or are you a student? I’ve never seen you around before.” The art department is small enough that he thinks he’s justified in saying that, even if he is only a sophomore. Everyone pretty much knows everyone when they all basically live in the studio anyways.

“Well,” Bucky says, “kind of both. I just started school here, but I got a gig with the department on the side.”

“That’s not a work study job, is it?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows. “If it is, you should complain. Financial aid is shit, but I’m pretty sure they’re not allowed to make you take off your clothes for your aid money.”

Bucky startles him by laughing loudly. “No,” he says. “God, no. Oh my god. I’m so glad I don’t have to fuck around with financial aid, that sounds like bullshit.” He rests his hands on his knees for a second, as if he has to recover from how hard Steve made him laugh. He shakes his head, and straightens up. He’s silent for a moment before he says, “I like the way you drew my arm,” reaching a finger out as if to touch the drawing but hovering a few inches away. “Nice attention to detail.”

“I like the way the light plays off it,” Steve answers honestly.

“Afghanistan,” says Bucky abruptly after a pause that’s a beat too long. “I was in Afghanistan, and,” he gestures vaguely with his left arm, “and now I’m here.”

“Well,” says Steve, “welcome to Marvel U.”

The professor calls break, and Bucky chuckles and claps Steve on the shoulder and he’s gone before Steve can think a reply.

 

Bucky models for their class for two weeks, and Steve spends those two weeks in breathless anticipation that Bucky will approach him after class, or during their break again. He does, sometimes. The rest of the time Steve spends trying very hard to only appreciate his naked body from an artistic perspective. He waits until after they’ve had their last class with him to ask Bucky out to coffee; something about going on a date with a guy you’re drawing naked was a little too uncomfortable, but the drawing is done and Steve doesn’t have any more excuses to see him, so he figures it’s about time he make one for himself.

“Hey,” Steve says, catching up to him as he’s leaving their last session. Bucky hasn’t seen the end result of his drawing; Steve noticed that he hadn’t gone around to see any of them finished, and he wonders why but probably won’t ask. “You headed home?” Bucky looks tired today; he’s sporting dark rings under his eyes that aren’t usually there.

Bucky shrugs, falling into step with Steve. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “Got a huge paper due tomorrow that I’m not done with.” That explains the tired look.

“Ouch,” says Steve sympathetically. “For what class?”

“The rise and fall of civilizations,” says Bucky. “History. It’s really cool stuff, I’m actually thinking about doing something related to the topic for my thesis. I just haven’t had the time to spend working on it until tonight.”

“Your thesis?” Steve asks. “Back up a step, what’s your major?”

“History,” answers Bucky. “Maybe with some minors, I dunno yet. It’s a little early to be thinking about my thesis, I guess, since I just transferred here and all, but like I said, really interesting stuff.”

“Well,” Steve offers, “I don’t know much about history, but would a second set of eyes help you? Or some moral support?”

Bucky gives him a look. “Yeah, sure,” he says.

And that’s how they end up camped out in the library together. Steve buys coffee for them both and works on the sketchbook pages that are due for his art class next week, and Bucky works on his paper. One of the sketches might end up being Bucky, bent over his laptop with a look of intense concentration on his face and a steaming cup of coffee sitting next to him, but Steve’s not going to tell.

This isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he was thinking coffee date, but it’s nice; they mostly work in companionable silence until about midnight, when Bucky says, “Okay, I think I’ve got it. Would you mind reading it over?”

“Sure,” says Steve, putting down his sketchbook after carefully turning the page to hide the sketch of Bucky. “I may be an art major, but I think I know my way around a paper.”

Bucky chuckles and slides his laptop over to Steve. He fidgets while Steve reads his work, but it’s very well-organized and concisely written, easy for Steve to keep up with even without any prior knowledge of the subject. Bucky’s right; it’s fascinating stuff, and he says as much.

“Your conclusion’s a little weak, I think,” Steve says, “and I fixed a few typos, but otherwise it looks really good.”

Bucky groans and covers his face with his hands. “I hate writing conclusions,” he complains. “Okay, I’ll work on that. Maybe in the morning.” He glances at his phone to check the time. “It’s not due until my two o’clock class.”

“Sounds like a plan,” agrees Steve. “Hey, this was fun, but what do you think about a coffee shop next time? Like maybe getting coffee and, I dunno, actually talking to each other or something.”

Bucky eyes him. “If this is your idea of fun, I’m not sure I wanna go on a coffee date with you,” he teases flirtatiously. 

“Fine,” says Steve, shrugging and standing up. “Your loss.” He grabs his sketchbook and turns to walk away.

“Tomorrow at three?” calls Bucky from behind him, and Steve grins, stopping. 

“At Mel’s down the street,” Steve counters without turning around. “It’s way better than Starbucks.”

“I’ll see you there,” says Bucky.

 

Steve gets there ten minutes early and spends those ten minutes doodling on a napkin, trying to swallow his nerves. It doesn’t work, never does, but he gets a nice sketch of the barista in before Bucky shows up, two minutes late, wearing a shabby overcoat and a fashionably tied blue scarf. It brings out his eyes, and Steve would swear up and down that he was only noticing it as an artist, but he’d be lying.

“Hey,” says Bucky as he approaches Steve’s table, slightly breathless and pink-cheeked from the cold. Steve picked the best table, the one in the corner by the window, and he’s already ordered them each a mug of black coffee and a few packets of sugar. He might have paid attention to Bucky’s coffee order the night before, and he’s pleased with himself for remembering.

“Hey yourself,” replies Steve. Bucky doesn’t waste any time in joining him, and picks up his mug to take a sip. He hums appreciatively.

“You were right,” he says. “Better than Starbucks.”

“Of course I was right,” scoffs Steve. “Please.”

“So,” says Bucky conversationally, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward to make eye contact with Steve. “You wanted to talk. How’s it going?”

They chat until their coffee is gone, and then some more. Bucky’s easy to talk to; they talk about their majors, what classes they’re taking this quarter, and how screwed they are for their upcoming midterms. They move on to topics other than school eventually - Steve finds out that Bucky _hates_ ketchup, that he loves to dance, and that he has a sister named Rebecca. By the time Bucky finally stretches, stands up, and says, “Coffee’s long gone. I guess we should get going,” Steve’s more than a little enamored by him, and he blurts out, “You wanna come to my place for dinner?”

“Sure,” says Bucky easily. Steve wants to sink in the ground - he doesn’t even have groceries for himself, let alone groceries to make dinner for a date, what was he _thinking_ \- but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.

“My place is within walking distance,” says Steve awkwardly, and Bucky grins.

“Lead the way.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they’re making out against Steve’s front door. When they finally separate, Bucky leans down to rest his forehead against Steve’s. Steve huffs a laugh. Bucky is so much taller than he is. He’s pretty sure he could fit under Bucky’s chin; he can’t wait to find out. There are a lot of things he can’t wait to find out, really.

“Did you actually want dinner, or?” he asks, smiling sheepishly. Bucky laughs, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he admits. “As much as I’m enjoying the making out, I’m pretty hungry.”

“The kitchen is through here,” says Steve, slipping out from under Bucky to point to the door on their left.. But when he gets to the kitchen, he pauses, only to see that Bucky isn’t following him.

Instead, Bucky is standing in front of the easel that’s currently housing the drawing he posed for in Steve’s art class. He’s never seen the finished product; he tilts his head to the side, studying it. Steve swallows hard, not sure what to say.

“I like it,” says Bucky finally. He’s not looking at his arm this time, but his face. He has an expression on his face that’s almost curious.

“Is that what I look like?” he asks, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Yeah?” says Steve, confused by the question, but then he gets it. Bucky’s seeing the tender quality to the drawing, the one Steve’s always looking for and is never quite able to capture. It’s not a perfect likeness, but it’s pretty close, and Steve has paid careful attention to getting the lighting right. In the light of the picture, Bucky’s face looks young and soft; he looks dynamic and so alive, not stilted and stiff like Steve’s model drawings sometimes do. 

Suddenly Steve’s feeling exposed, because now Bucky is seeing himself as Steve saw him during those drawing sessions and there’s something so intimate about it even though they’re still only just getting to know each other. It makes Steve want to squirm uncomfortably.

“Hm.” Bucky hums, regarding the picture for one last moment before turning to look at Steve. He’s smiling like he just learned a secret. “I like it,” he repeats.

“I like you,” Steve counters, and Bucky crosses the room to pull him into another kiss, this one slow and soft. Steve can’t stop himself from smiling into it.

Dinner has to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> It took all of my willpower not to make this into a longfic. Maybe another day. Thanks for reading! Any comments are greatly appreciated.


End file.
